


The Fox and the Swallow

by juniperandjawbones



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Aen Seidhe, Aen Seidhe Culture, Aen Seidhe Lore, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Drinking, F/M, Fluff, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Magic, Mutual Pining, Original Aen Seidhe Characters, Scoia'tael (The Witcher), Smut, Soft Iorveth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 13:54:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22397209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juniperandjawbones/pseuds/juniperandjawbones
Summary: "True hope is swift, and flies with swallows' wings."-William ShakespeareBranded a traitor and relegated to the edges of civilization after escaping execution, Iorveth is now an infamous fugitive wanted by every authority in the Northern Realms. Unswayed, the elven commander chooses once again to fight, to rebuild his Scoia'tael forces and continue to make a stand for the future of the Aen Seidhe. His is a life of blood and pain, and of nights filled with a cold, echoing loneliness.Then one day a stranger walks into his camp, and destiny shows Iorveth that even in the dark shadow of war, light still shines from unexpected places.
Relationships: Iorveth (The Witcher)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 116
Kudos: 114





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A li'l author's note from your li'l author:
> 
> First of all, thank you for being here and for sharing this story with me! It's always mindblowing and humbling to have people reading and enjoying my silly self-indulgent fandom nonsense, so know that I appreciate you taking the time to look at any of my work!
> 
> If you do enjoy it, I would love to hear from you! Those little emails from AO3 to let me know about kudos and comments make my day! 
> 
> I love all kinds of comments, and I try to take a moment to respond to everyone who leaves one, whether it's incoherent squealing or a full dissertation on the chapter. And if you're feeling shy and you've already left a kudos, know that I will never turn my nose up at a simple heart emoji in the comment section to let me know that you're still enjoying the ride! The only type of comment I'm not keen on is unsolicited criticism. (Yes, even the constructive kind. If I'm open to CC, I will definitely say so and request it!)
> 
> I'm also on [Tumblr](http://lyrium-lovesong.tumblr.com) and I have anonymous asks enabled, so don't be shy if you want to ask me questions, chat about writing or fandom stuff, or just generally geek out with me. I love hearing from people and I'm a super laid-back, chill friendo.
> 
> Thanks again for being here! It means the world!
> 
> -Lyr

_“Fuck!”_

The word came out an angry hiss from between Iorveth’s clenched teeth, his body jerking as his angular features twisted into a grimace.

He was slumped backward in a chair, the light from a nearby oil lamp dimly illuminating the interior of his tent. Bent over him, another elf turned her chin up to look at him, a long braid of brunette hair hanging over one shoulder, the opposite side of her head shorn clean to the skin. A gold ring flashed brightly between her nostrils, gleaming the lamplight.

Blood— _his_ blood—pooled around her hand, which she had placed gently next to a deep cut across the side of his bare torso.

“My job would be easier if you tried not to move.” She betrayed an edge of annoyance in her tone, but there was a twitch at one corner of her full lips, as if she was trying to hold back a smirk.

“It _hurts_ , Lana!” he snapped.

“I don’t doubt that. And as soon as I can finish reading you, we can work on making it better.”

He glared at her, setting his jaw as he watched her bow her head, fingers spreading ever so slightly. A strange sensation began where her palm met his skin. Warmth, and a subtle, pulsing vibration spreading outward like ripples in a pond. It made his wound twinge horribly again, but he willed himself not to jump, letting out only a strangled groan of pain this time. After another brief moment, the elven woman looked up, turning to meet his gaze with a pair of wide eyes the color of sea glass.

“A broken rib,” she told him, “as well as this nasty gash, which is deep but seems to have missed anything vital, fortunately for you. What sort of weapon made the wound?”

“Halberd,” he grunted, and she raised an eyebrow intersected by a pair of long, thin vertical scars which extended over her eyelid and onto her cheek—souvenirs from her first battle with their battalion when she’d stepped in front of the slashing blades of the enemy to guard a fallen elf. He studied the scars with a sort of fondness as she turned her gaze back to the wound.

She had been brave that day. Skilled beyond anything he’d have guessed upon meeting her. And selfless, as ever.

“A _halberd?”_ she repeated. “You got very lucky, then.”

“Can you fix it?” He drew in a sharp breath as she prodded him with gentle fingers.

“I can heal the bone with a spell, and then clean and stitch the wound. Or I can clean the wound and mend it with magic, and the bone can fix itself naturally. It won’t leave as much of a scar, but it’ll take a long time for the bone to mend on its own, and it will be much more painful.”

“You can’t just heal all of it at once?” It was his turn to sound irritated, now.

“As I’ve explained before,” she told him with an air of forced patience, “magical power is finite, mine more so than most. My energy stores are limited, and there were many injured today who needed healing more urgently. I’m treating you last, as you requested, so I’ve used up most of my chaos at this point. I can do one or the other. Not both.”

Iorveth gave her a searching look. He didn’t fully understand her brand of magic. None of them did, perhaps even including Lana herself.

She wasn’t a mage. Not _really_. Her knowledge and skill seemed limited mainly to basic healing magic, and she declined to say where she’d come by any of it. In fact, she wouldn’t say much at all about her life prior to finding the Scoia’tael.

Some of the men whispered among themselves that her magic was a remnant of having drunk the Waters of Brokilon. Iorveth had once asked her if this was true. She’d merely given him a wordless smile, her sea-glass eyes sparkling. His gaze followed her as she crossed the tent to fetch a basin and a pitcher of clean water.

“Mend the rib, then,” he said tersely, shifting his position. “And stitch the wound. Wouldn’t be my first scar.”

“‘Mend the rib _please_ , Lana,’” she corrected him, looking reproachful as she walked back toward him. He rolled his one visible eye up to the ceiling of the tent. The other eye—or what was left of it—was covered by a red scarf, which hid a sprawling cicatrix that covered most of the right side of his face.

 _“Please,”_ he spat, struggling to sit comfortably in the hard-backed chair. “You know, your bedside manner could use some improvement.”

She smirked, setting down the pitcher and kneeling in front of him again. “So could your dodging skills, apparently.”

He scowled, but inwardly he had to admire her sharp wit. Nobody else under his command would dare cheek him the way Lana did. He wondered briefly to himself why he let her get away with it. Then he watched her lay her warm, soft palm against his bare skin again, pursing her lips in concentration as she closed her eyes. She leaned over a little, her blouse billowing forward just enough to show the twin curves peeking out from the top of her breastband and the points of three arrowheads tattooed in the center of her chest between them. 

_This. This is why._

She began to murmur a string of Elder. Her words were too quiet to be intelligible, but he found comfort nonetheless in their gentle, familiar cadence. A warmth bloomed from beneath her fingers as her magic penetrated his body, and he felt a strange sensation, a strong ache deep in his bones as his rib knit itself back together. When she’d finished, she sat back, taking her hand away.

As soon as her touch left him, he found himself longing to have it back. Whether because it had been a painfully long time since he’d been with a woman— _Not since Saskia_ , a voice whispered in his mind— or because he enjoyed Lana’s company more than he cared to admit, he couldn’t be sure.

“How does it feel?” she asked, meeting his eye. He nodded, giving a grunt of approval. The wound still hurt, but the intense heat and sharp pain in his side had subsided. He drew a deep breath for the first time in hours.

Lana’s kit rested at her feet, a battered old leather case full of bandages, bottles and little glass phials filled with potions and tinctures. She selected a tiny one filled with a vivid green liquid and carefully tapped two drops into the pitcher, swirling its contents to mix the concoction.

“You’ll need to sit up for this part,” she told him. “I need to wash the wound so it doesn’t fester. This will help relieve some of the pain for a time, as well.”

He did as he was told, straightening his back as much as he could. He watched as she positioned the basin underneath the wound, and then she tipped the pitcher against his chest. Cool water poured over the gash, tinting pink as it mixed with the blood and splashed into the bowl. After she was satisfied with the job, she blotted the area dry with a clean towel and set about preparing a needle and thread.

“How many were hurt?” he asked, looking away as she began to stitch, hoping for some distraction. Though the wound was mostly numb, as promised, the sensation of the thread pulling at his muscle was unnerving, and watching her sew his flesh together like the seam of a torn pair of trousers always made him feel a bit nauseated.

“Eight,” she answered. “Nine, including you.”

“Anything dire?”

“Nothing life-threatening. Siobhan’s had the worst of it—a nasty concussion, got herself bashed with a shield. She’ll need bed rest for several days, possibly a week. Can’t even move without tossing her guts, poor creature.”

“Nothing else of note?” he asked.She went quiet, avoiding his gaze and not replying to him right away. His usual gruff, gravelly voice sounded soft around the edges as he spoke her name. “Lana?”

She cleared her throat. “An enemy soldier. Nobody of any significant rank, just some dh'oine pawn, barely old enough to grow a proper beard. He’d been gutshot by a bolt.”

“And?”

She glanced up at him with just her eyes, her hands frozen in the act of pulling the red-soaked thread taut.

“And the Scoia’teal take no prisoners,” she replied in a quiet, resigned voice. “I gave him a potion. He fell asleep and never woke up.” Returning to her work, she leaned over him again, her forearms and wrists streaked with his blood now.

Iorveth grunted his approval as he gave her a searching look. “Many of ours have died worse deaths at the hands of humans. You did him a kindness, Lana.”

“Did I? I could have saved his life. Instead, I took it.”

“He’d have done the same to you, only not so gently. Maybe he’d have scalped the rest of your pretty hair first, or sliced off your ears for trophies, or—”

 _“_ That’s _enough_ ,” she interjected, her jaw set. “I take your point.”

He closed his mouth, watching her face in silence for a moment. “You can’t mourn every wounded dh'oine whose misery you bring to an to end _._ ”

Her frown deepened. “ _N’te dice aep me aen an wedd,_ Iorveth. I’m not some naive little elfling. I’ve been killing them by your side for more than two years now.”

“And you’re _good_ at it,” he agreed, tilting his head. “I’ve seen you hit a man dead between the eyes with one of your blades from fifty paces off. It’s the ones we _don’t_ finish that always seem to give you pause.”

“I was taught to wield magic to heal and to nurture, even for those who didn’t look like me. It’s been difficult for me to use my skills so… selectively.”

“Does your faith in our cause falter?”

“No,” she said firmly, her full lips drawing into a thin line as she continued her handiwork. “I saw the way our people were used in the war and then cast aside, even by our fellow elves. I couldn’t sit idly by any longer while the Aen Seidhe continued to be made a sacrifice for human power. But it’s still difficult to lay aside all I was taught.”

Iorveth’s curiosity was piqued, and he lifted his brows. “Taught by whom?”

She looked up at him again, the light from the flickering lamp reflecting in her eyes so they seemed to glow for a brief moment. Without answer, she turned back to his wound, finishing the last stitch and pulling the thread tight.

“Will you keep these secrets forever, Lana? The men spread such stories about you—that you come from Brokilon, an adopted daughter of the Dryads. Surely you’d like to quell the rumors once and for all.”

She remained silent for a long moment as she rinsed the crimson streaks from her hands. _Strong, sure hands,_ he thought to himself. Hands that could hold a blade to harm or to heal with equal skill, the lingering evidence of both stained around the edges of her fingernails. He watched her wring water from the rag and begin wiping away the blood smeared over his own skin. Finally, she cleared her throat, and his eyes flicked up to meet hers.

“Dol Blathanna,” she said simply.

“What?” Iorveth furrowed his brow.

“That’s where I came here from. Dol Blathanna.”

He looked nonplussed. “Really?”

“I know, it isn’t nearly as exciting as the alternative. Sorry to disappoint.”

“From what I hear, the elves in Dol Blathanna have a nice arrangement. Landowning rights, peaceful trade between Aen Seidhe and their dh'oine neighbors. All thanks, of course, to your queen’s treachery.”

A dark look crossed Lana’s face, and she tossed the rag into the basin with more vigor than necessary, splashing the blood-tinged water over the side.

“She is _not_ my queen,” she said, meeting his eyes with a steady gaze.

He smirked, visibly pleased to hear this blunt declaration. “That’s quite a strong statement.”

“Think what you will about me. Think me soft and unsuited to the life we make for ourselves here in the shadows. But let me assure you of one thing for certain: I have neither affection nor loyalty toward Francesca Findabair.” She spat the name from between her lips as though it were a thorn that had pricked her tongue.

He let the statement linger in the air between them for a moment as his eyes trailed to her mouth. “And what about for me?”

She quirked an eyebrow. “Are you asking after my loyalty, Iorveth?” she asked, watching as his gaze continued downward to follow the lines of collarbones that disappeared into the neckline of her blouse. “Or my affection?”

He leaned forward, looking her in the eyes. “Yes.”

He was so close to her now that she could smell his breath—the crisp scent of the spearmint leaves he compulsively chewed—and for a fraction of a second he thought she looked surprised, her sea-glass eyes widening. But she readily shut them as he closed the distance between them, anticipating the press of her lips against his. He felt the slightest brush of soft skin and then—

_“Commander!”_

They both jumped, parting and leaning away from one another just in time to see the shadow of another elf appear on the other side of the tent flap.

Iorveth cleared his throat, still looking at Lana. “Come in!” he called, and one of his lieutenants poked his head through.

“If you’re finished, I’ve come with a report.”

Tearing his eyes away from her, Iorveth turned to the man, inwardly loathing him for his poor timing, though he couldn't possibly have known. “Yes,” he said briskly, nodding. “Yes, I think we’re done here.”

Lana was already hastily packing away her supplies, being far less careful with the little bottles than she ordinarily would and jostling them with a loud clinking of glass as she hoisted the bag over her shoulder. “Keep it clean and dry,” she said without looking at him, turning to leave. His hand reached up to touch her wrist, and she whirled her head back around.

“There will be drinks around the fire tonight, to celebrate our victory,” he told her.

She gave the other soldier a nervous sidelong glance. “I suspected as much. There usually are.”

“Yes, and sometimes you choose not to honor us with your company.” He gave her a pointed, expectant look.

A familiar smirk nestled into the corner of her mouth. “I’ll make no promises. I’m quite exhausted after today’s events.”

She turned again, making her way across the tent and past the other soldier, who nodded politely as she passed.

“I’ll see you tonight, then!” Iorveth called, grinning as she shook her head and slipped through the canvas into the waning evening light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:
> 
>  _N’te dice aep me aen an wedd_ \- Don't speak to me as if I'm a child


	2. Chapter 2

The sound of raucous laughter floated across the forest clearing, infiltrating the walls of Lana’s tent. From the sounds of it, the rest of the camp had made its way to the fireside for some well-earned frivolity. 

She sighed, massaging peppermint oil deep into the muscles of her hands and wrists, aching from the work of setting fractures, bandaging wounds, and stitching her comrades back together.

She was tired. The kind of tired she could feel in her very bones. It was always like this for her after a battle, called upon to use every last measure of her magic until she felt as though it had been forcefully wrung from her, twisted and wrenched until the last drop had been squeezed out. It was why she rarely spent these evenings celebrating, preferring instead to retreat to the solitude of her tent to rest and recuperate.

No matter how tempting Iorveth’s personal invitation had been—or how many times this evening her mind had wandered to that almost-kiss, her heart fluttering the same way it had back there in the dim light, recalling the scent of spearmint on warm breath that had tingled against her lips—she wasn’t sure she could resist the siren’s call of her bedroll, which lay ready and waiting in the middle of her small tent.

There was a round of cheerful shouting from outside, and then a moment of quiet before the lively notes of a flute carried to her ears. Iorveth had been asked to play, and suddenly she found herself powerless to argue against the lure of the music beckoning her to his side. With a sigh of resignation and a last, longing look at her pile of cozy blankets, she pulled her boots on.

The mingled aromas of pine and soil and smoke scented the cool night air as she stepped out. She could feel the warmth of the campfire envelop her as she drew near. Several of her friends and fellow soldiers were dancing to the music, accompanied by enthusiastic clapping and cheering. Skirting around the edge of the crowd, she passed behind the reveling elves, stray limbs jostling her as they moved to the music. Many of them were smiling for the first time that day, and their unbridled joy felt contagious. She smiled herself as she made her way to a gap in the circle. Someone passed her a tankard full of ale, and she accepted it with a nod of thanks, raising it to her lips.

Over the rim of the mug, she observed Iorveth as he played. He’d seated himself on a wide stump, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to display a pair of lean, tanned forearms, the strong muscles beneath his flesh twitching rhythmically as his fingers did their own dance over the instrument.

Glancing up, he noticed her watching him from across the clearing. In the orange glow of the firelight, she saw his lips quirk upward around the mouthpiece of his flute. His fingers continued to fly along the holes, never missing a note as he held her gaze. Finally, she pulled her eyes away from him, a gentle flush coloring her cheeks as she took another sip of ale.

As the song ended, a round of applause clattered through the crowd, and by the time she looked back up, Iorveth was no longer seated on his tree stump. She cast her eyes around, but he was nowhere to be seen. Then she jumped as a hand touched her shoulder, and she whirled around to see him grinning behind her.

“You’ve decided to grace us tonight, I see.”He gripped a tankard of his own in his free hand now, and he raised it toward her, clinking it against hers before taking a sip. She gave a nonchalant little shrug of her shoulders.

“I almost didn’t, but then I heard you playing.”

“Ah, well, just call me the Pied Pier, then,” he said, his roguish smile widening. “Glad I could lure you out of your tent.” He took another drink, wiped foam from his lip with the back of his wrist, and gestured toward a log near this side of the fire. “Sit with me?”

She obliged, situating herself on the rough bark and crossing one leg over the other. Iorveth planted himself next to her, his thigh brushing against her hip as he made himself comfortable. She felt her face redden again and hid behind her tankard, taking a long draw of the sweet, cool ale.

“Good, isn’t it?” he asked, gesturing toward the cup. “Took a couple barrels off the hands of a dh'oine noble some of our men raided a few weeks ago. He certainly won’t be needing them anymore.” He studied her reaction, as though waiting for her to flinch.

She didn’t, though she did frown a little, giving him a pointed look. “I assume this nobleman’s crimes extended beyond traveling down the wrong highway at the wrong time?”

“I did mention the _human_ part, did I not?”

She exhaled a huff of laughter through her nostrils. “For all your talk of hating dh'oine, even you don’t resort to wanton killing. So he must have done _something,_ other than merely traveling while human. What what was he doing? Smuggling elflings to Nilfgaard for the slave trade?”

Iorveth seemed a bit shocked at this suggestion, his eyebrow lifting so that it almost disappeared beneath his scarf. “Nothing quite so terrible as _that_. If it had been, I’d’ve had him brought in alive. No, we had evidence the bastard was using his fortune to supply the Blue Stripes, and you know what we always say.” He smiled as he lifted his tankard, shouting “Fuck the Stripes!”

“Fuck the Stripes!” echoed the crowd without hesitation, pausing in their conversations to lift their own ales and toast the sentiment. Then they all promptly returned to their previous activities, and Iorveth gave Lana an expectant look.

“Yes, yes,” she conceded, a slight grin on her lips. “Fuck the Stripes.”

He cocked his head, tutting at her. “You could stand to be a bit more enthusiastic when you say it. One might mistakenly think your heart isn’t quite in it, little meadow blossom.”

The sly reference to her earlier confession—Dol Blathanna, the Valley of Flowers—was not lost on her, and she stiffened, looking around to make sure none of the others were paying attention to their conversation.

“How many times in one day do you plan to question my loyalty, Iorveth?” she asked, her mouth drawing into a thin line.

“Well,” he said with a shrug, “in my defense, we weren’t able to finish our previous, ah… _conversation_.” His visible eye flitted to her lips again. “I believe a demonstration of your loyalty was imminent, but I never did get to find out.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head, her jaw softening again into the ghost of a shy smile. Her skin prickled with heat, and not all of it from their close proximity to the fire’s edge.

“Come now, are you _blushing?”_ He wore a self-satisfied grin as he nudged her with his elbow.

“It’s the drink,” she argued. “Ale always makes my skin rosy.”

“Of course.” Iorveth raised his tankard to his lips, still smiling at her.

“How’s your wound?” asked Lana, desperate for a change of subject.

He turned to look down at his own shirt. “All right, I think. Still smarts a bit.”

“Yes, a sharp blade slicing into your flesh will do that.”

He snapped his head back up to give her a look that was halfway between amusement and disapproval.“You know, if anyone else in our faction was this impertinent toward their captain, they’d have been sent packing a long time ago.”

Lana snorted into her mug. “You and I both know half of this camp is only still alive because of me. You can’t afford to send me away, and even if you could, my attitude doesn’t seem to be much of a deterrent anyway, based on our _previous conversation_.” He gave a conciliatory tilt of his head. “Anyway, if it’s bothering you, I’ve got some herbs in my tent that might help.”

“I wouldn’t say no,” he replied, his eye briefly flitting down toward her linen tunic, cinched at the waist with a pointed leather corset that perfectly framed the undersides of her breasts. “But how about you bring them to my tent after the party, instead.” He rose, draining his ale. “I’ve got a bigger bedroll.”

* * *

He’d offered to fill Lana’s tankard, as well, but she had merely shaken her head, showing him several inches of drink still residing at the bottom of hers. And so he made his way to the cask alone, giving a hearty pat to a shoulder here or offering a jovial smile there as he passed through the ranks of his loyal Scoia’tael.

They deserved this, his soldiers. They deserved to laugh and to drink and to find happiness in each other’s company.

He looked back over his shoulder. Lana was still seated on the log near the fire, now joined by another elven woman, Rhianwenn, who was chatting animatedly with her. He caught a fleeting glance in his direction, those sea glass eyes sparkling in the firelight as she looked at him for a fraction of a second before returning her attention to her friend.

His stomach fluttered—a feeling he hadn’t experienced in years—and he had to will himself to look away from her long enough to fill his mug.

Didn’t he deserve it, too? To steal joy while he still could? To find comfort in another?

A realization was beginning to dawn on him in that moment. His feelings for Lana were deeper than he’d allowed himself to admit. Deeper, certainly, than he’d let on in her company tonight, with his pointed gaze and all of his swagger and shameless propositioning. He’d come on so strong, he wondered if she thought that was all he wanted.

Not to say, of course, that he _didn’t_ want her, physically speaking. Because oh, he _did_.

He always had, from the moment she’d entered his tent for the first time at the points of his men’s blades, the fear obvious in those wide, beautiful eyes easily overshadowed by the defiance set in her jaw. He could picture that version of her so clearly.

She’d still worn her hair down then, unshaven, in dark, glossy waves that had skimmed her pale shoulders. With little more than her battered leather case and the clothes on her back—an intricately embroidered tunic and a long, billowy skirt trimmed with white eyelet lace that had become black with mud—she’d marched into their woods one spring afternoon, demanding to speak to Iorveth of the Scoia’tael.

How she had changed in the intervening years. She’d traded in her skirts for sensible leather leggings, and begun plaiting her hair so it wouldn’t drag through blood she’d either spilled herself or was trying desperately to staunch. Shearing one side of her head had been an aesthetic choice, so far as he knew, but one he approved of. It showed off her delicate pointed ear—a symbol of their shared heritage, of everything they were fighting for.

She’d had their emblem—a trio of arrows crossed at the shafts—inked on her skin in the center of her chest. She’d asked Rhianwenn to pierce her nose. She’d stopped complaining about how much she missed straw mattresses and hot baths and fresh milk. Her skin had grown tan from living outdoors, her thighs thick and muscular from marching over tree roots and leaping across streams. And her skill with a throwing blade, already mysteriously formidable when she’d joined their midst, had somehow grown even more accurate and deadly.

And—perhaps the most poignant change of all, he thought—she smiled more. And she _laughed_ , a clear, bubbling laugh like a forest brook that warmed him from within. Whatever dark clouds had hung over her that first day they’d met, her light outshone them now.

 _You love her,_ whispered a voice from the depths of his mind.

A stream of liquid splattering noisily against dry leaves and wet soil jerked him back to the present. His tankard had filled to the brim and run over, spilling over his hand and onto his trousers.

 _“Shit!”_ he hissed, twisting the tap on the keg and cutting off the stream. He flicked his hand, sending droplets flying through the air, glittering like molten gold as they caught the light of the fire. He swore again under his breath, this time not about the drink.

That accursed little voice was right.

He didn’t just want to fuck her. He _loved_ her, and he was admitting it to himself here, of all places, battle-worn and well on his way to drunk, with cold ale dripping down his pant leg.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time the barrel of ale had run out, Lana was surprised to find that she felt more awake than she had when she’d arrived at the fireside. Perhaps it was socializing with her friends that had energized her, or—more likely—Iorveth’s shameless advances.

Inexplicably, though, for the latter half of the evening, he’d almost seemed to be _avoiding_ her. She chalked this up to embarrassment over a large amount of ale he’d spilled on his leg, which he kept unsuccessfully trying to blot dry with a handkerchief.

As the party wound down, she searched the crowd for him, her eyes scanning the milling throng for his red scarf. He was nowhere to be seen.

Odd that he would have retired for the night without so much as a goodbye, she thought to herself, making her way back to her tent. Perhaps the battle had finally caught up to him and the party had had the opposite effect, draining him of whatever energy he had left. Between that and his double-serving of strong ale, it was possible, even likely, that he’d already dozed off.

A heavy, unpleasant feeling settled in her stomach, and she tried to swallow it back, but she couldn’t hide from her own emotions, and she scoffed at the ridiculousness of it all.

Disappointment. Over being rejected by _Iorveth_ , of all people.

Her mind drifted back to the first day they’d met. It hadn’t taken more than a few moments in his company to get a clear picture of the rebel leader’s personality, and it had certainly matched his reputation among the elves in Dol Blathanna. He was charismatic and clever, to be sure, and a brilliant strategist, but she could also sense arrogance and an icy chill in his words that gave her second thoughts about marching into his forest and volunteering for his cause.

As the months went by, he had warmed to her, his demeanor softening as he grew more confident in her capabilities. She’d even come to consider him a friend, but as his walls slowly came down, she also came to know that some of the less endearing parts of his personality hadn’t been mistaken first impressions. He was far too self-assured, indeed, and the cold, calculating indifference with which he made his decisions still alarmed her sometimes.

Where Lana favored an idealistic view of the world, always assuming the best of people until proven otherwise, Iorveth was ever the pragmatist, his view of the world shaped by a lifetime of cruel experience.

He thought her soft, naive. Weak, even. She knew it, and if she had honestly thought for a moment that anything meaningful could have come of his advances, perhaps he was right.

Maybe, had the evening gone differently, she could have experienced a night of pleasure in his bed—a long-overdue physical release which, if she were being honest, she _desperately_ wanted. Because whatever else he may be, she couldn’t deny that Iorveth was incredibly handsome, with his beautiful moss green eye and his strong, angular jaw, and a wide, warm, genuine smile that could charm a basilisk. More than once in the course of mending his injuries, she’d been treated to views of his body that had stoked a blossoming heat between her legs.

So yes, she had wanted that kiss, and would probably have taken more if he were to offer. But when the sun rose, what future was there for them, really? It wasn’t as though he would ever feel more for her than a throb in his groin.

She snorted at the very thought. She wasn’t convinced that the infamous Iorveth was even _capable_ of love.

And yet the brick of discontent that had settled in her gut remained.

Looking around, her eyes fell upon her worn leather bag in the corner of her tent. She had offered to bring him some herbs to help with his pain. At the very least, she should make sure he could sleep comfortably tonight.

_An excuse to visit him anyway? Pathetic._

She set about packing a small pouch with willow bark and celandine and a roll of cloth for bandaging, ignoring the mocking little voice inside her head. _No,_ she thought firmly. That wasn’t what this was. She was merely doing her job. Caring for her patient, just as she would have been expected to do for anyone.

But as she briefly scrutinized her reflection in a small hand mirror, smoothing a bit of unruly hair at the crown of her braid and pinching a bit of color into her cheeks, she knew she wasn’t fooling anyone—least of all herself.

* * *

  
Iorveth, meanwhile, paced the length of his tent, chewing aggressively on a sprig of spearmint.

He’d done little more than steal occasional glances at Lana for the remainder of the party after that little epiphany by the cask, keeping himself occupied with conversation and hiding behind the mask of his usual carefree charm. And then, when the rest of the crew had begun to retire for the night, he’d waited until her attention was engaged elsewhere and slipped away without a word, still too alarmed by his startling revelation to pluck up the courage even to bid her pleasant dreams.

He stopped pacing, crossing his arms over his chest.

_Go to her._

Yes. That was the right thing. He should stop being an idiot and just cross the camp to her tent.

But what if she didn’t want to see him? Worse yet, what if she wasn’t there? What if, in her anger—because of _course_ she’d be angry, or at the very least annoyed, and really, who could blame her—what if she’d gone to find solace in someone else’s tent, instead?

He’d have found the situation funny if it were anyone else, if he wasn’t so thoroughly irritated with himself, sneaking off like a coward when her back was turned. How he’d managed to lead a faction of guerilla soldiers and tip the balance of an entire war when he was such a spineless chicken shit, he could not fathom.

His feet began to move again, not toward the entrance of the tent, but tracing the same path back and forth across the length of his quarters.

He’d have to talk to her again _sometime_. It might as well be now. Get it over with, whatever “it” turned out to be.

Having made up his mind, he turned toward the tent flaps just in time to see a familiar silhouette materialize on the other side. The sound of Lana clearing her throat came through the canvas wall.

“Iorveth? Are you still awake?”

Hearing his name on her lips drained him of any shred of certainty he’d had in the wisdom of his plan. Nonetheless, she was here now. He looked around, hastily shoved his bloody clothes from that day’s fight into a trunk, and straightened.

“I’m here.” His mouth suddenly felt dry as a bone, the little bits of leaves like sandpaper on his tongue. He spat them into his chamber pot and took a deep breath “Come in.”


	4. Chapter 4

“I brought you those herbs.” Lana stood just inside the tent, frozen, hands fidgeting as she looked around the dim interior. “Thought you could use them so you can get some sleep tonight.”

Iorveth’s tent was the largest in camp, about ten paces across, and he stood at the far end of it next to his trunk. The basin of bloody water still sat on top of the squat wooden barrel that functioned as a side table next to Iorveth’s hardbacked chair. There was a light film on the top where the remains of the potion she’d mixed in had floated to the surface.

Making a face, she crossed to the basin, taking it in her hands. Its sloping metal sides felt cold to the touch against the nervous heat radiating from her palms. She made her way back to the tent’s entrance and tossed the vessel’s contents out onto the ground outside.

“I was going to do that,” he told her, running a hand over the back of his neck. She gave him a skeptical look and set the basin back down on the barrel top with a light clunk. He cleared his throat. “You know. Eventually.”

She looked around the messy tent, at his untidy pile of armor and several discarded drinking vessels strewn about. “Your housekeeping skills are about as good as your talent for dodging.” That adorable, annoying little smirk made itself at home on her lips again. “Though you did manage to successfully evade _me_ for the rest of that party you were so keen on me attending.”

He held her eyes for a fleeting moment and then glanced around the tent, looking at everything and nothing all at once as he struggled to find words. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I should have at least found you and said good night. I just… had a lot on my mind.”

“Would you care to talk about it?” she asked, putting a hand to her hip.

Iorveth’s gaze followed the movement, resting on her fingers and then making its way to her leather-clad thigh entirely of its own volition, which set his mind whirring again, thinking about how the soft, warm flesh under her leggings would feel beneath his palms.

No, he did _not_ want to talk about it. He wanted to bury his nose in the crook of her collarbone, inhale her scent, kiss his way down her body until she was quaking from his touch. Something stirred in the pit of his belly, and he grasped at the first topic of conversation that popped into his head.

“I was just thinking about what you said earlier," he lied. "About Dol Blathanna.”

Lana let out a scoff, rolling her eyes. “Is _that_ what this is about?”

“I’m just wondering why you left a life of comfort and prosperity to camp out in the woods and spend your days stuffing our guts back into our bodies. And why so much vitriol at the mention of the queen?”

That part wasn’t necessarily untrue. He _was_ genuinely curious about the answers to these questions. That they provided a welcome distraction from his other problem, well... that was just a happy coincidence.

“I told you why I wanted to join the day your men marched me into your tent with their knives at my back. I believe in the cause. The dh’oine fight petty battles amongst themselves, spilling blood over land and magic they took from us by force. And they aren’t courteous enough to keep the bloodshed to their own. We _died_ for them. I saw how the queen used your men, then denounced and discarded them when she saw a chance to achieve her own selfish ends.” She clenched her jaw, that same dark look on her face as before, eyes flashing in the lamplight. “It’s what she does. She’s always valued power over own her kin.”

Iorveth’s brows had furrowed now, his mouth turned down into a confused frown. “You speak of the queen as though you have some sort of history with her.”

Lana met his eyes briefly, then looked away, drawing a deep breath through her nostrils. Finally, she said, “Francesca Findabair is my mother.”

Silence. The words hung in the air, seeming to echo off the canvas walls of the tent.

Iorveth felt as though he’d been bashed in the head. The room gave a tilt and he blinked hard. “Your _what_?”

“She’s my mother.”

“But how… how is that possible? I thought sorceresses couldn't bear children.”

“Most can’t, but there are exceptions. She had me when she was very young, and she kept it a close secret. Outside of this tent, only a handful of people knew. And most of them are dead by now.”

He put his hands to his temples, screwing his eyes shut. Of all the women who could have walked into his forest and stolen his fucking heart, it had to be the daughter of that _varh’he._ He thought he might be sick.

“And when did you plan to tell me you were a fucking _princess_ , exactly?” he spat, not bothering to disguise his frustration.

Lana snorted. “I’m the unclaimed bastard daughter of a queen. I think you’ll find my title offers a bit less in the way of status than that of ‘princess.’”

Iorveth’s expression suggested that he didn’t see much difference, and she rolled her eyes again.

“Look," she began, "I was abandoned as a baby at the old Temple of Melitele in Vizima. It’s a hospital now, that’s where I learned everything I know about healing. I didn’t find out until I was much older who my mother was. I sought her out, and I didn’t care for what I found. And then the war happened, and I wanted nothing more than to be out of her reach, and to find a way to use my talents to help our people fight back against her.”

“So you came here on some, what… revenge mission against your mother? That’s all this has been? A vendetta?”

Iorveth’s expression made her eyes burn with the threat of tears. He looked shocked and angry. _Betrayed_. She chewed the inside of her cheek.

“I think maybe that was part of it, yes,” she admitted. “At least in the beginning. But if it had only been about revenge, I don’t think I’d have stayed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he growled.

Looking around the tent again, she heaved a sigh. “Can we sit down, perhaps?” she asked.

Iorveth gave a grunt and an unenthusiastic shrug and gestured at the patterned rugs that covered the bare ground inside the tent—spoils from another of their raids. She lowered herself to the floor, crossing her ankles and wrapping her arms around her legs. He followed, bending his legs in front of him and resting his elbows on his knees.

She met his expectant gaze, willing herself not to fidget with her hands or glance away to avoid that heartbreakingly hurt look on his face. “You’re right, I did want to strike back at her. For abandoning me, for choosing her powers and her status over her only child. But you have to believe me when I say that I did—I _do_ —believe in what we fight for. I want the same things you do—freedom for nonhumans, and justice for what the dh’oine have done to us all.”

“But?”

Her head tilted to one side, her brow wrinkling as her eyebrows lifted. “I confess, I didn’t quite know what I was getting myself into when I waltzed into your forest. There were many times I wanted to leave. As much as I was convinced your goals were just, I didn’t always care for your methods of attaining them.”

He scoffed, glaring at the patterned carpet between his knees, a humorless smile on his face. “So you came to see me as the rest of the world does: Iorveth, the bloodthirsty terrorist, the heartless murderer.”

 _The monster_.

There was a horrible twisting, squirming sensation in his gut now, as though his belly were full of writhing serpents. It was Saskia all over again. He’d been a fool, an absolute _idiot_ , to think that anyone could find enough in him worth loving anymore.

“That’s _not_ how I see you, Iorveth.”

He tilted his head up to see her frowning at him, a pitying expression on her face. “No?” he asked, a note of disbelief in his voice. He wished she would stop looking at him that way.

“No,” she said, moving tentatively toward him. Her voice sounded firm, emphatic. “No, I don’t. We may not always agree on things—I’ll admit that your tactics sometimes still give me pause. But I grew up in a temple, a place of reverence and healing. This new life is still so foreign to me, I wouldn’t know where to begin to lead a group of soldiers. I had to learn to trust your instincts.”

She reached out and wrapped her hand around one of his, her soft palm covering his fingers, and he felt a comforting sort of warmth—which he knew had nothing to do with magic—spreading through his body. “If I had come here only with vengeance on my mind, if that was all I cared about, I’d have left a long time ago. It wouldn’t have been enough to keep me here.”She paused, her thumb stroking across his knuckles as she pieced together how to explain.

“I lead with my heart,” she continued. “I always have. Often to my own detriment. You lead with your head. You have the fortitude and the conviction to make the hard decisions that nobody else wants to make. _That’s_ what the Scoia’tael need, that’s why all these people are willing to lay down their lives for you. They’d follow you anywhere, Iorveth. And so would I.” She squeezed his hand, holding his gaze. _“You_ are the reason I stayed long enough to realize that this is where I belong. Not in some farcical illusion of elven sovereignty, taking whatever scraps the dh’oine felt like tossing to us. Right here, next to you, fighting to get back what they took.”

The words had barely left her when Iorveth suddenly leaned forward, cupped her jaw in his hands, and kissed her full on the mouth, nearly knocking her over with the force of it. She had to plant a hand on the ground to steady herself for a moment until he broke away. A pleasantly dizzy, drunken feeling enveloped her, the taste of spearmint lingering on her lips.

He gave her an apologetic grin. “I’m sorry if that took you by surprise… or if it was unwanted.”

She brushed her free hand over his cheek, smiling up at him, and in lieu of an answer, she slid her hand around to the back of his neck and pulled him down to press his lips against hers again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NSFW**
> 
> Now with art! See end chapter notes.

Strong hands gripped Lana’s hips, encouraging her to climb forward until she straddled Iorveth’s lap, their mouths still locked in a heated kiss. A faint flavor of ale lingered on both of their tongues, all the more intoxicating for having now been shared between them.

After a moment, she pulled away from him, reaching around to the back of his head, fingers resting on the knot that secured the red scarf over half of his face. His hand closed around her wrist, and she frowned.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Leave it.”

She cocked her head. “I’ve seen you without it at least a hundred times.”

“Yes, but we weren’t…” He glanced away from her. “This is different.”

He’d been injured years ago, the better part of a decade now, and he’d never been intimate with anyone without his cowl on since. He felt no pause at the idea of bearing everything else, of being completely naked in her sight. But the thought of taking off his scarf, of her seeing his disfigured face this close, in this setting, made his heart slam against his ribs like a frantic bird trying to escape its cage. A cold sweat began to form at his temples.

“Iorveth.” Lana’s voice, barely more than a whisper, cut across his thoughts. She traced a thumb over his bottom lip. “I told you something tonight that I’ve never told anyone before. I let you see me.” Her eyes flitted back to the scarf. “May I take it off? Please?”

Drawing a deep breath, he clenched his jaw to steel his will and gave a small nod. He felt her working at the knot, and then the tension holding the cowl over his cheek released as she freed it, pulling the cloth gently away from his face.

A vast red scar had completely closed over the empty void where his other eye had once been. It stretched, taut and livid, up over his eyebrow. Thick branches of twisted tissue extended across his forehead and down over a deep ravine carved into his cheek, the edge of which ended where his lips began.

Lana carded her fingers through his hair, allowing cool air to reach his skin as her nails scratched lightly over his scalp. He closed his eyes, relishing the feeling, and then soft lips pressed against his scarred brow, and he had to swallow back a lump that had suddenly materialized in his throat.

Her mouth moved down to meet his again, a different kind of kiss this time—not frenzied and carnal, but deep and sweet and full. He answered it in kind, his hands sliding up her back to pull her to him.

 _Closer._ He wanted to draw her in further, he felt like he could never pull her near enough.

Then she gave a little tug to the hair on the back of his head, a nudge of her thighs that rocked her hips against his, and his lust came soaring back.

Her lips parted, an invitation he willingly accepted, kissing her, devouring her like a man ravenous. For touch, for release, for someone to know everything he was and everything he could never be, and to want him anyway.

 _I let you see me_.

Her words echoed again in his head. She’d seen _him_ , too. And she’d stayed. He was _why_ she’d stayed. Why she was here on the floor of his tent, pressed impossibly close to his chest, their legs and arms intertwined like the roots of the forest that snaked through the earth beneath their feet.

His hands roamed down over her collarbones, one palm giving her breast a gentle squeeze as the other made its way to the stays of her corset. His fingers fumbled for a moment before he leaned away from her, scowling at the tangled mess he’d made of the laces.

“Damn it,” he mumbled, trying and failing to undo the knot he’d made. “What sadistic son of a bitch invented these things, anyway?” He glanced around and then reached for a dagger lying nearby among his pile of armor, but Lana batted his hand away from it, laughing.

“Don’t you dare!” She took up the laces herself, shaking her head and picking at the nest of cord with her nails. “Gods, Iorveth, you could secure a sail with this knot, how on earth did you manage to do this?”

He grumbled something unintelligible under his breath, and she glanced up at him with just her eyes, her lips curving up into that smirk that simultaneously made him want to tell her off and kiss her breathless.

Finally, she managed to undo the stays, pulling them loose with her thumbs and then sliding the corset over her own head. She tossed it to one side, and then her eager hands made themselves busy untucking the hem of his shirt. He stretched his arms up, allowing her to remove it.

Leaning back, she studied Iorveth’s bare skin in the firelight, fingers outlining the meandering tattoo of leaves and vines that wound its way down his neck and onto his chest, ending near the place where her line of neat stitches criss-crossed over his fresh wound. Her feather-light touch raised his skin into pebbled gooseflesh in its wake.

His eye made its way to the soft curves still hidden beneath the linen fabric of her tunic. She must have seen him staring, because without waiting for him to ask, she lifted it off with one smooth motion and added it to the growing pile of discarded clothes. She leaned in to kiss him again, the tops of her breasts pushing up teasingly over the top of the thin linen strip of her breastband.

Iorveth caught the merest wince in her expression as she moved, and he frowned, holding out a hand to stop her. A huge, ugly bruise colored her side, covering her hip and disappearing into her leather leggings.

“You’re hurt.”

She followed his eyeline, leaning to the side to examine her own leg. Returning her gaze to his, she gave him a small smile. “It’s just a little bruise. How does the expression go?” she asked. “‘The shoemaker’s children go barefoot,’ or something like that?”

His frown deepened. “That bruise is far from _little_.”

“It’s nothing. I was trying to make my way to Siobhan after she got knocked out, and some hulking ape of a dh’oine caught me with his flail, that’s all.” She gave a nonchalant little shrug.

“What did he look like?” Iorveth growled. “I’ll kill him.”

She smiled wider. “I’m fairly certain you already did.”

_“Good.”_

She let out another laugh— _gods,_ he loved that sound _—_ but then winced again as she shifted her weight.

“Would you be more comfortable if we got off of the hard ground?” he asked, gesturing a few feet to the side where his heap of blankets and pelts lay waiting.

“Probably,” she agreed. “Plus I hear you have a _huge_ bedroll.”

“The biggest one in camp.”

She huffed, amused, and leaned down to kiss him again with smiling lips before sliding off his lap and crawling over to recline on the soft, warm sheepskin that rested on top of the pile. Iorveth stayed where he was, letting his gaze drag slowly over her form.

“Well? Are you just going to sit there and stare at me?” she asked, propping herself up on one elbow.

His lips quirked into a devilish grin. “Definitely _not.”_

He was already half-hard, the tightness in his pants growing with each passing second, and he thought if he didn’t get her out of what remained of her clothes very soon, he might just burst into flames right there in the middle of the floor.

He moved to join her, tucking his chin into the crook of her neck and pressing his lips to the hollow of her collarbone. Leaving a trail of long, languid kisses over her soft skin, he made his way up to her exposed ear, giving the lobe a gentle suck and the slightest nibble. He heard a little groan rise up from her chest and he smiled, breathing hot air against the wet skin and delighting in the shiver it evoked from her.

His hand had found the laces at the back of her breastband. “I hope this comes off easier than that corset,” he purred into her ear.

As if by way of an answer, she sat halfway up, pushing him onto his back and then climbing on top of him to straddle his middle. Reaching an arm behind her back, she expertly undid the fastenings and allowed the strip of fabric to fall away.

Iorveth’s eyebrows shot up as he saw a gold hoop glittering from each of her rosy nipples, which stiffened in the draft of air that met them after she removed their covering.

“And here I thought the nose ring was the only recent addition,” he said, feeling his pulse quicken as the throb in his pants intensified.

“Who says they’re recent?” she asked, quirking a brow.

He swallowed hard, the bulge in his throat bobbing noticeably in the harsh shadows cast by the lamplight.

Lana took one of his hands and slid it up the warm expanse of her belly to her breast, and he obediently kneaded it in his palm, gripping her thigh with the other hand. Her leg tensed under his touch as she gave her hips a generous thrust, grinding remorselessly against him. She could feel him through the leather of her leggings, hard as an iron rod now, and she rolled her hips again, dragging a moan from his throat.

Iorveth hooked a pinky into the little ring in her nipple, giving it an experimental tug and sending a jolt of sensation straight through her core to the spreading heat between her legs. She began to unlace her pants with eager fingers, already dreading the brief moment where she would have to dismount to wriggle out of them. It arrived sooner than she’d anticipated.

“Roll over,” Iorveth instructed in a low, dusky growl. She looked up, saw his face painted with desire, and did as he asked. Once she had positioned herself comfortably on her back, he bent over her, his hand dipping past her leggings to slide underneath the waistband of her smalls. His fingers met warm flesh followed by a thicket of silky little curls, and finally they found their way to velvet skin made slick with desire.

Covering her lips with his again, he tucked one finger inside her, eliciting a gasp. Two fingers, and she moaned into his mouth. His thumb began to make swirling motions against the tight knot of tissue at the apex of her folds, and she broke away to breathe his name and a string of words in Elder, barely audible, like a whispered prayer.

He could feel her muscles clenching around his fingers and imagined what it would feel like to push his full length into her tight, wet heat. He had a feeling she was close to climax, but gods, just the thought of being inside her was going to make him come before he’d even undone his trousers. Reluctantly, he pulled his hand away, and she let out a small whine of disappointment.

“You stopped,” she said in an accusatory tone, propping herself up to watch as he sat straight, yanking at his belt buckle. “Why did you stop?”

“Because if I don’t fuck you soon, this is going to be over before it begins,” he told her. She watched as he hastened to removed his pants, tossing them without looking which direction they flew. He took his erection in one hand, drawing measured breaths and closing his eyes.

“Are you going to be all right?” she asked, and he could hear that damned smirk in her voice again.

“Shh, I’m trying to think about plunging into an icy lake.”

She giggled, and he opened his eye to give her a reproachful stare. Hooking her thumbs into the waist of her leggings, she shimmied them down her legs along with her smalls and kicked the garments off to the side. His gaze lingered for a brief moment over her hip, at the purple and yellow bruise that extended halfway down her thigh.

Pointedly, she cleared her throat. “I’m _fine_ , Iorveth.” Then she crooked a finger, beckoning him to her side again, and he found he needed no further encouragement.

As he hovered over her, he felt her strong legs wrap around his waist, squeezing him against her and gliding her soft, slick skin along his length. He bent to kiss her neck again, dragging his teeth along her flesh and letting out a low rumble of pleasure. With a bit of maneuvering, he angled his hips and slid smoothly into her entrance, evoking another sharp inhalation as her body accommodated his girth. The soft walls of her body pressed in deliciously all around him.

Pulling himself up onto his elbows and being careful to avoid leaning on the thick rope of her braided hair, he smoothed the sweat-dampened tendrils from her forehead and gazed at her face—her imperfect, beautiful face, with its scars and its dimples and creases and the faint scattering of freckles here and there from days spent in the sun.

He found his fervent need ebbing away, replaced by something quieter and less frantic, and he rocked slowly in and out of her, savoring each movement.

Her eyes met his as she reached up to cradle his jaw in her hand, fingers brushing delicately over the old wound gouged into his cheek. She was looking at him so tenderly—so _lovingly_ —that for the second time he had to choke back the tide of his emotion.

He’d never before felt so thoroughly exposed and vulnerable in all his life. And yet there was no discomfort in it. He felt safe, ready to surrender himself completely to her. She smiled up at him, and he etched the picture into his mind, thinking to himself that he would never again see something so breathtaking as this—Lana lying naked on top of his pallet of blankets and pelts, beaming at him with her wide, sea-glass eyes sparkling in the lamplight.

 _“Esseath_ _deàrrsaddh dan gydd na real’ta,”_ he murmured. _You shine brighter than all the stars._

_“Caen me a’beathe aris,_ Iorveth.”

He did as she asked, pressing a kiss to her lips and weaving his fingers into her hair as he rocked into her again. She squeezed her legs around him, inviting him deeper, encouraging him to quicken his pace, angling herself just so and letting out quiet noises of pleasure with each thrust. It didn’t take long to bring her right back to the edge again, but he could feel the heat building to a crescendo in his veins, a tight knot at the base of his cock that was begging for relief.

Reaching down, he slipped his hand between their bodies again to hasten her ascent. A few brief moments of his attention and she tossed her head back, calling out as she came clenching around him. It was all he needed to come undone. He moaned, pressing his forehead to hers as he pistoned into her with short, abrupt thrusts, feeling the freefall of his own climax overtake him. He swore and he whispered her name and he spilled into her, wringing himself out until he collapsed, panting, against her chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork courtesy of the delightful and amazingly talented [Schoute](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schoute), who can also be found on [Tumblr](https://schoute.tumblr.com/).


	6. Chapter 6

Iorveth closed his eyes, letting the steady rise and fall of Lana’s chest beneath his cheek rock him into a hazy sort of lull. “That was nice,” he mumbled into her skin.

“Mmm,” she agreed, her fingers weaving their way idly through his sweat-dampened hair.

They stayed like that for several minutes, silent except for the sounds of their breathing slowly returning to a normal pace. Finally, with a hiss and a bit of a wince, Iorveth slid himself out and sat up next to her, swiping a wrist over his brow. He smiled down at Lana, lying there with her eyes closed and a pleased expression on her face. His affectionate gaze traveled down her body, coming to rest on a large smear of blood on her belly. The grin on his lips transfigured itself into a confused frown, and then he seemed to piece things together, looking down at his own side.

“Shit.”

Lana opened her eyes to see him examining the wound she’d stitched earlier, which had strained against the sutures and begun to bleed again. She sat bolt upright and waved her hands, gesturing for him to turn his body toward the lamplight.“Let me take a look.”

Prodding it with gentle fingers, she inspected each stitch carefully. Iorveth gave a few grunts of discomfort, his brow furrowed as she leaned back.

“Well, we certainly pissed it off,” she said. “The stitches have held, but it’s opened up a little, and I’d be willing to bet it doesn’t feel too good.”

“You’re not wrong.” He winced, trying to shift his position so the skin around the gash wasn’t being either stretched or wrinkled. Then, with a cheeky grin, he added, "Worth it, though."

“Lie back,” she instructed, smirking and reaching for her leather leggings. The little pouch of herbs and bandaging was still waiting in one of the pockets, and she fished it out, removing a hunk of willow bark and passing it to him. “Here, chew on this. Have you got anything clean I could mash some leaves in? A clean bowl or something?” She looked around the untidy tent.

“I’ve got a cup that I only use for water, it should be near the place where you found the pitcher earlier.” He pulled one of the woolen blankets over his legs and put the piece of bark into his mouth, grinding it between his teeth. A pleasant, earthy flavor met his tongue as he set about wiping away the blood from his body for the second time that day.

Lana returned with the little pouch, the cup he’d mentioned, and a wooden soup spoon. He watched with interest as she set about mashing a bundle of green leaves inside the cup with the spoon’s blunted handle.

 _“Herba zireal,”_ said Iorveth around the mouthful of bark, a note of recognition in his tone as he gestured at her makeshift mortar and pestle.

“Hmm?” She looked up at him, hands still busily working the spoon and cup. She was still completely naked, moving about with a confidence that suggested she didn’t feel remotely uncomfortable with this fact. Somehow, it made her even more beautiful.

“Swallow’s herb. What you’re using.”

“Oh.” She raised her eyebrows. “I’ve never heard it called that. The humans at the temple always just called it celandine. It’s a very useful herb. I’ve seen it practically bring men back from the dead.” It was an exaggeration, of course, but not by much. Celandine was a crucial part of any healer’s kit, with the power to stop bleeding, reduce pain, and quicken the healing of even the most critical wounds.

“Shame they didn’t tell you the elven name for it, seeing as how we’re the ones who imparted that knowledge to the dh’oine in the first place.”

“Why the name?” she asked. “It doesn’t resemble a swallow’s tail or anything.”

“Swallows are good omens. Heralds of springtime, a symbol of warmth after the winter thaw, of happiness and hope. Seemed a fitting name for an herb that can cure almost anything, I suppose.”

Lana pursed her lips. “Sometimes I feel like I’m missing such large pieces of who I am, being raised by humans. The other elves here, the ones who grew up in the cities among our own kind, they at least know a bit about our history. I know almost nothing.”

“I could bore you for _hours_ with legends and myths, if you like,” he offered, giving her a smile.

She grinned back. “You know, I think I'd actually like that. Very much, in fact.”

Dipping her finger into the cup, she pulled out a glob of sticky, mashed leaf and spread it carefully onto the wound. Iorveth expected it to burn or sting, but instead it felt cold and soothing, as if she were spreading snow over his skin. After a moment, he stopped feeling it altogether.

“So if you didn’t learn any elven stories as a child, what did they teach you?”

Lana shrugged. “The sorts of things you’d expect to learn growing up in a hospital. How to set bones and mend wounds and care for the sick. I had the aid of magic, of course. My mentor wasn’t a mage, but she did her best to guide me on using my limited powers to help with my healing.” She began wrapping the length of bandaging cloth around Iorveth’s waist now, unfurling it slowly and snugging it to his skin as she rolled it against him. “And it was a temple, so of course I learned a bit about their gods.”

Iorveth snorted. “ _‘Their’_ gods. As if they didn’t steal those from us and twist them into their own image, too.”

She looked up at him, brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Well, take Melitele, for instance. She’s just _Dana M éadbh_ with flattened ears.”

“Who?”

“Our goddess of fertility and the harvest, the one who commands all living things. Plants, animals, elves. If it breathes, it’s in her domain.”

“Oh,” said Lana, recognition dawning on her face. “You mean Lyfia? I think she's different, there was a big festival for her in Dol Blathanna every autumn, and even the elves got excited for it.”

“No.” He gave her a gentle smile. “I mean _Dana M_ _é_ _adbh_. The three may share similarities, but Melitele and Lyfia are dh’oine goddesses. Poor imitations of the original.”

She arched a brow, tying off the bandage and tucking in its ends. “I didn’t realize you were so religious, Iorveth.”

He laughed at this. “I’m not. I just care about saving our history and our culture from dying at the hands of humans, that’s all.”

“So you don’t believe in the gods?”

A sullen expression darkened his face for a brief moment, like the shadow of a cloud passing over the ground. “No. Or at the very least, I don’t think they believe in _us_. If they ever did exist, they’ve forgotten the Aen Seidhe.”

Lana let this statement hang in the air, sitting back on her heels. A sudden, cool breeze chilled her bare skin and she hugged her arms around her chest, giving a shiver.

Iorveth frowned. “Are you cold?” he asked. He still felt quite warm, himself.

She shook her head. “I wasn’t, but there must be a draft. You didn’t feel it?”

“No. But I’m also under a warm blanket.” He pulled back the edge of the cover and smiled.

“You could turn out that lamp and join me.”

His flesh was warm against hers, raising goosebumps on her skin as she wriggled in next to him, resting her head in the dip of his shoulder. She slid her leg up over his thigh, accidentally brushing near his groin.

Iorveth squirmed, grinning at her in the dark. “Careful, now. You’ll get me all riled up again.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” she asked drowsily into the crook of his neck, pressing her lips to his skin. She nuzzled against his neck, soaking in his warmth.

“Alas, as tempting as that idea is, I don’t think I could muster the energy. I could tell you one of those stories, though, if you want.”

He waited for an answer, but there was only silence and the gentle whispering of breath through her nostrils. Then she let out a soft snore, and he smiled into her hair as he kissed the top of her head.

_“Va dearme, zireal’ca,”_ he whispered.  _Sleep well, little swallow._


	7. Chapter 7

Water flowed cool and clear through a stream that ran near the Scoia’tael camp, burbling gently over rocks and thick tree roots as it made its way through the forest. On its banks, two elven women sat hunched over piles of washing, laughing together as they worked.

“You _strumpet!”_ exclaimed Rhianwenn, her mouth agape. Her wild tangle of orange hair had been secured in a knot on top of her head, and she looked at Lana with a wide, blue stare.

Lana rolled her eyes, scrubbing at a pair of her leather leggings with a rough stone. A large amount of Iorveth’s blood still stained one of the legs, a souvenir from the night she had mended his rib.

“Please. One night with a man after months of pining hardly classifies me as a harlot. And it’s not as though you haven’t spent your fair share of nights in someone else’s tent.”

“Me?” The other elf feigned a scandalized look and placed a hand to her chest. The chill of the water had reddened her pale, freckled skin from her fingers to her elbows.

“Yes, _you_ ,” Lana fired back, aiming a playful splash at her friend. “It would do you some good to remember who supplies you with potions for the morning after when they’re needed.”

Rhianwenn laughed and shielded herself from the arc of flying water. “Well, fair point," she conceded. "But I ain’t never spent a night in the _commander’s_ tent. And he’s your patient, to boot.”

“I’m the only healer in camp, Rhi. Everyone is my patient. Makes for slim pickings if you’re going to be choosy about that.”

“You’re the only one in that tent who _weren’t_ being choosy, then. Iorveth bringing someone to bed… never thought I’d see the day.”

“What do you mean by that?” Lana furrowed her brow. “Surely he’s seen more action than just me. He certainly didn’t act inexperienced last night.” She watched her friend snort at the suggestion.

“That ain’t what I’m implyin’. But I haven’t seen him bed anyone since we left Vergen, and that’s been, what, four years now?” She shook her head. “No, far as I know the last one was Saskia, and we all know how _that_ ended.”

Lana chewed on the inside of her cheek, looking down at the deep red stain stubbornly clinging to the soft hide between her fingers.Most of the Scoia’tael knew at least some version of the story. Iorveth didn’t like to talk of it himself—rarely did Saskia’s name even pass his lips these days—but the camp loved to recite the tale when he wasn’t around, as if it were some mysterious and legendary romance from the pages of an old fairy tale.

Iorveth had regarded Saskia with deep respect and adoration—infatuation, the way some told it—but she had spurned him after a brief dalliance. He left, though not without some reluctance according to most, and then she’d died a heroic death to save the Dwarven village of Vergen, all in vain. The Nilfgaardian troops had razed it to the ground despite all her efforts.

“What was she like?” Lana finally asked her friend, breaking the short silence.

“Saskia?” Rhianwenn paused, a reminiscent look on her face and a dripping wet linen shirt suspended between her hands. “Iorveth’s foil, truth be told. Empathetic and kind, regardless of a person’s race. A bit idealistic. Not unlike you in many ways, though to my knowledge you can’t turn into a _dragon_.” She smiled. “Then again, 'Daughter of the Dryads' ain’t too bad, neither.”

Scoffing, Lana resumed scrubbing with increased vigor. “Don’t tell me you believe those ridiculous rumors,” she grumbled. “Does my skin look green to _you?”_

“It did that night you smoked too much pipe grass.”

This was rewarded with a reluctant huff of laughter. “Shut up, Rhi.” Her scowl returning, she plunked the leggings back into the water to check her progress. It was like she hadn’t scrubbed them at all. The man’s blood was as obstinate as he was, it seemed. “Hand me some soap root, will you?”

Rhianwenn passed her a small tuber covered in shaggy brown fibers. “What’s got your smalls in a twist all the sudden?” she asked, watching as Lana began yanking the thready pieces from the center bulb.

“Nothing," she replied, her frown deepening. "I’m fine.”

“You’re a liar, and you’re bad at it.”

Lana shot her friend a glare, digging a folding knife out of her pocket and flicking it open. Scraping it against the exposed white flesh of the root, she began shaving off little bits onto her stained leggings. “How am I supposed to fill the void left by someone like that?” she asked quietly, thoroughly annoyed at her own emotions for the second time in as many days.

Rhianwenn exhaled a long breath through tightly drawn lips. “Honestly? I don’t think you can.”

“Thanks,” Lana scoffed, folding the fabric of the leggings over and rubbing the soap root into the stain until a thick lather formed. “That’s _very_ reassuring.”

“Well, think about it in terms you’re familiar with. Wounds, they leave scars, right? And sometimes what you lose, you can’t never get back again. You can’t fill in the place Saskia left any more than you can give him back his eye. But you can acknowledge that the hole’s there, the hurt happened, and you can love him anyway, scars an’ all. And that can be enough.” She paused, giving her a sidelong glance. “Assumin’ of course it’s even love we’re talking’ about.”

Pursing her lips, Lana took up the stone again and resumed her scouring, feeling a small amount of satisfaction as the stain finally began to yield. “It’s only been one night. I’m not ready to call it that. Not yet.”

“Not yet,” replied the other elf, giving her a searching look. “But maybe someday.”

Lana tried to avoid looking her in the eyes. Rhianwenn was incredibly intuitive and had a way of staring at a person— _through_ them, really—that made one feel as though she could read a mind as easily as if it were an open book.

Lana decided to steer the conversation back toward her original concern. “I just don’t want to sit there and wonder if he’s always comparing me to her, and finding that I come up short.”

“He won’t.”

“How can you know that?”

“You ever seen him play cards?” Rhianwenn asked, ruddy hands wringing cold streams of water from her tunic.

“Once or twice, but I wasn’t paying that much attention.”

“Well, you should sometime. He’s a cautious player, Iorveth. Doesn’t ever bluff. He could if he wanted to. Unlike _you,_ he can tell a convincing lie. His face don’t give nothing away if he don’t want it to. But if he ain’t confident he’s got the winning hand, he folds. He won’t put more money on the table unless he’s certain he can come out on top.” She gave Lana a pointed look. “If he’s takin' you to bed, after four years without givin' another woman so much as a passing _glance?_ That man’s already placed his bet an’ gone all in. He’s only wagerin’ his heart because he feels sure you won’t break it.”

Lana watched her friend lay the tunic out on the grass to begin drying in the sun. Then her sea glass eyes wandered to the trees, and, staring at nothing in particular, she mulled this over, her palm still automatically working the stone against the leather in her hands. Rhianwenn picked up another piece of her laundry and plunged it into the water, glancing over.

“Stain’s gone, Lana. You’re gonna rub a hole right through them leggings.”

Looking down, Lana realized she was right—the leather where she had been working now looked faded and worn. Irritated, she tossed the stone onto the bank and wrung out the leggings, laying them out sloppily behind her on the grass and grabbing another of her bloody garments.

“How was it, though?” asked Rhianwenn after a moment, a curious smirk on her lips.

“How was what?”

“You know.”

In spite of herself, Lana felt a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth as she dunked the linen shirt she’d picked up into the cold stream. “None of your business, Rhi.”

“Oh, come on,” she replied, giving her a nudge. “Don’t be a spoilsport.” When Lana merely shook her head, she asked, “Why, was it terrible? I mean, four years _is_ a long time to be out of practice.”

“What?" Lana looked up, her cheeks reddening. "No! It wasn’t that. It was… it was good.”

“Was it like ‘Trout and leek stew when it’s Faen’s turn to cook’ good?” her friend asked, a hopeful expression on her face.

Lana gave her a sly grin. “More like ‘The night we raided that carriage full of fresh cheese and rowanberry brandy’ good.”

Rhianwenn’s eyes widened, her brows shooting up toward her hairline.

“You _are_ a strumpet!”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be taking a lot of liberties with expanding on Aen Sidhe mythology, so a lot of what you see from here on out won't be canon in terms of that.
> 
> Also plz enjoy some soft!Iorveth today.

Shadows danced on the canvas walls of Iorveth’s tent, cast by the flickering flame of the lamp burning low on the squat little barrel he kept for a table. The light caught beads of sweat that glittered across his temples. It was another warm night, and warmer still for having a naked woman draped across him for the second time that week.

“Tell me one of your stories.”

Lana’s voice broke the comfortable silence, and a grin tugged at his lips. Crossing an arm behind his head, he looked down at her, propped up on her stomach with her bare chest pressed against his, a blanket covering legs still intertwined beneath it. Her fingers traced lazily over his skin, outlining the vines and leaves that decorated his body, carefully avoiding the wound still healing on his side. A slight tingle followed in the wake of her caress, but whether it was the hum of her magic unintentionally transferring to his skin or just the thrill of her touch, he couldn’t be sure.

“I’ll offer you a trade,” he said, his eye moving to her long, thick braid. Bits of hair stuck out at odd intervals, dislodged by a round of fervent lovemaking. How long had it been since he’d seen her without her plait? Months. Perhaps more than a year.

“Mmm?” she asked, glancing up to look at him from underneath heavy lids. She wore a sweet expression, a tranquil sort of happiness he enjoyed seeing on her face.

“I’ll tell you a story if you’ll let me take down your hair.”

Her eyes twinkled in the lamplight as she returned his smile. “All right.”

They sat up together, and Iorveth motioned for her to turn away from him. Her braid had been secured as always with a thin strip of leather tied around the end, and he set about unwinding it, letting his gaze wander over the expanse of bare flesh in front of him—the dusting of freckles on the caps of her shoulders, the shallow valley of her spine between muscles sculpted by hard labor and hours spent practicing at archery. He’d seen her taking lessons from Rhiannwenn, and though Lana had always been much more proficient with a blade, she was no slouch with a bow these days, either.

“What would you like to hear?” he asked, unweaving the rope of hair with his fingers. He let the thick strands slip through his fingers, forming a waterfall of long, brown waves that cascaded over his arm as he combed his way toward her scalp.

“Tell me more about Dana Méadbh.”

“Ah,” he replied. “Queen of the Fields. Perhaps the oldest in the pantheon. She governs all the living things of the world. Plants, animals, the Aen Seidhe. Perhaps even the dh’oine, now, if their own tales are to be believed, though our stories of Dana Méadbh far predate the conjunction of the Spheres. She appears during the growing and harvest seasons, dressed in a white gown woven from flax with a crown of flowers and herbs atop a head of golden hair. In her arms, she carries a bouquet of grains or ears of corn. Some legends say her spirit can possess any living thing, plant or beast. Others tell tales of her shifting her own shape and taking on the form of whatever animal she chooses. Often it’s a deer, or sometimes a fox.”

His hands made their way to the crown of her head, her hair now draped in a glossy curtain of dark ripples over her back. He continued carding his fingers through, smiling at the way she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.

“And what do you think of these tales?” Lana asked.

He grunted. “The same thing I think about all the gods. People suppose if they burn the right offering or pray on the right day, they might have some say in their destinies. It’s far easier to blame a poor harvest or a famine on the anger of a capricious deity than it is to accept that nothing of nature is within our control.”

“Tsk, such a skeptic,” she teased, and though he couldn't see her face, he could tell by her tone that her lips had formed their characteristic smirk again. “Tell me about another god you don’t believe in, then.”

He thought briefly, letting his fingernails scratch lightly against her scalp with each stroke of his hand and enjoying the soft hums of pleasure it evoked. “Do you know of Díann Leighael?”

“No, who’s she?”

“The goddess of healing. Hair the color of fresh blood, with eyes like emeralds and a sash made of _herba zireal_ across her chest. It was said that any body of water she blessed would become _aevonhaela_ , a healing spring, able to cure any sickness or injury. Though she seems to draw the line at beheading.”

Lana gave a quiet snort. “Everyone has a limit, I suppose. But can you imagine how much more efficient I could be if all I had to do was chuck you lot in a pond when you hurt yourselves?”

Smiling, he added, “Interestingly, many versions of Díann Leighael also depict her with pale green skin. Sound familiar?”

Comprehension dawned on her face, and she turned to look at him over one shoulder, arching a brow. “The Dryads?”

Iorveth nodded. “She’s said by some to be _Má Woedbeanna_ , the mother of all Dryads, and supposedly she’s the reason the Waters of Brokilon have their magical powers. Curative properties, memory modification, the ability to transform one’s appearance.” He gave a shrug as she turned fully around to face him again. “Not that I need to tell you any of this—you’re our resident Dryad expert, after all.”

“ _Thaesse_!” She laughed, reaching out with one foot to aim a playful kick in his direction.

He deflected it easily, returning her smile. Then he let his eye trail over her naked form, thick waves of brown hair falling over her shoulder to cover one bare breast. “I haven’t seen your hair let down in ages. Not since before you started shearing the other side.”

He reached out to tuck the long strands behind her hidden ear, letting his thumb linger to brush over its delicate point. Somehow this tiny gesture felt more intimate than anything they'd done beneath the covers, and she must have thought so, too, because she ducked her head and glanced away, her words tumbling out from her lips in an avalanche of nervous energy.

“It's probably silly for me to keep it this long, given what I do. It gets in the way so often, it would make more sense just to cut it all off. But I can’t imagine myself without it. I’ve never had short hair.”

“Not even as a child?”

Her voice grew quiet. “No. It wasn’t allowed.”

“They didn’t permit you to have your hair cut?” Iorveth asked, frowning.

For a moment, she looked hesitant, casting her gaze anywhere but his direction and chewing the inside of her cheek. “I wasn’t permitted to let my ears be seen,” she said finally, hazarding a glance at his face.

Iorveth clenched his jaw, making no effort to hide his anger. His network of scars stretched taut over his furrowed brow as a rumbling growl sounded from deep within his throat.

“I think it was as much for my own protection as anything,” Lana added hurriedly. “The temple was a place of sanctuary, and my guardians there would have defended me to the death, but I did have to go outside its walls into the city sometimes, and you know how Temerians treat anyone who isn’t dh’oine.”

“Yes,” he snarled. “I do.” His eye flashed in the flickering lamplight, darting toward her shaved side, and the pointed ear she now openly displayed. He reached up to rub the short, velvet-soft hair that was beginning to grow in. “Is that why you did this?”

She nodded. “I was tired of hiding them. I wanted people to see that I’m proud to be Aen Seidhe, that I’m never again going to allow anyone to make me feel ashamed of who I am.” She paused, looking down to stroke a hand over her loose hair. “But I couldn’t give up _all_ of it.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. It’s beautiful.” He paused, his eye unwavering as it held her gaze. _“You’re_ beautiful, Lana.”

A warm blush visibly colored her sunkissed skin, even in the dim light. She waved a hand as if to dismiss the compliment. “Flatterer.”

“Guilty as charged,” he admitted, the ghost of a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Is it going to get me anywhere?”

She gave him another of her ornery little smirks, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “That all depends on what you want,” she said in a sultry voice.

Iorveth didn’t fail to notice the way she tossed her hair back over her shoulder so both of her breasts were on full display, the little gold rings in her nipples glinting in the lamplight. Something reared its head within him, as though she’d strummed some sort of primal chord that stirred a sleeping beast somewhere in the vicinity of his groin. He did his best to ignore it for the time being. 

“I want you to share my bed again tonight."

The earnestness of his statement in contrast to her own jesting proposition seemed to catch her off guard, and her lips parted in surprise. “Are you sure it's wise for us to keep doing this? What if someone rises early and sees me crossing back to my tent?”

Iorveth shrugged. “What if you didn’t? What if you stayed until the sun is well past risen, and I got to wake up and see you next to me, and rouse you with a kiss when I’d had my fill of gazing at your face? What if we didn’t care who knew that you’d spent the night in my arms?”

Lana blinked, speechless. Her continued silence made his stomach start to churn, and he found himself wondering if he’d said the wrong thing.

He cleared his throat. “Unless you don’t want people to know?”

“It isn’t that,” she said, still looking at him with that nonplussed expression. “I just didn’t want to make things uncomfortable for you.”

“Why would it be uncomfortable? The rest of the company has no shame in spending the night in one another’s tents. Why should we?”

“You’re their leader. What if they think it undermines your authority over me, or that you’re going to start playing favorites?”

“Let them think what they will. I trust you to respect me as your captain on the battlefield. But the war has no place in our bed.” He gestured to the blankets and pelts around them. “In here, we’re equals. Can we agree on that?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes, I think so.”

“Then I see no reason we should have to sneak around like a couple of thieves to enjoy one another’s company.”Shrugging again, he added, “Anyway, I think some of them may already suspect. I’ve been getting… looks.”

Lana glanced away, chewing her lower lip. “And you... you haven’t told anyone?”

“No,” he said, arching a brow in suspicion. “Have _you?”_

She gave him an apologetic look. “I may have told Rhi the other day.”

He laughed. “Well, that clarifies things, then. If you told Rhianwenn, the whole _camp_ will know by now.” He shook his head. “Explains why Faen very pointedly asked me this morning if I’d been getting enough sleep.”

“Oh no.” Her cheeks reddened again. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him to mind his own business and stick to what he’s best at—robbing dh’oine and losing at Gwent.” He grinned. “Get the lamp, will you?”

Still looking somewhat sheepish, she extinguished the flame and joined Iorveth under the blankets in the dark, curling against his warm chest.

“I suppose your flattery worked,” she said after a moment, and he could feel her smile against his skin. “You did get what you wanted.”

He crooked a finger under her chin, tipping her face up and catching her lips in his. This time when the beast began to stir, he didn’t try to fight it.

“I never said that was the _only_ thing," he purred, and they wove themselves together again in the dark.


	9. Chapter 9

The harvest season always advanced on Redania at a quick march, it seemed. One day the woods would be as wet and sweltering as a public bathhouse, and the next morning the camp would wake to a dry, crisp chill in the air and the unmistakable smell of autumn on the breeze.

A full moon cycle had passed since the first night Iorveth had shared his bed with Lana, and now the changing of the seasons had well and truly arrived. The forest canopy had begun to transform its uniform blanket of green foliage into a fiery patchwork quilt, casting its mottled light on the undergrowth in bright shades of gold, saffron, and scarlet.

Iorveth had seated himself in the shade of a huge, picturesque maple, its cloak of red leaves still clinging tight to the branches. In one hand he gripped an arrow stripped of its bedraggled fletching. His other hand rummaged around in a small box of wild turkey feathers, fingers sifting through the soft pile for the perfect trio.

The sound of crunching footsteps prompted him to look up and see his second in command, Faen, lifting his hand in greeting and giving Iorveth a lopsided grin as he approached. By elven standards, Faen was a huge man, standing a full head taller than Iorveth and easily half again as wide. He’d been among the first to join the newly-rebuilt Scoia'tael faction six years previous, after what remained of the Vrihedd Brigade had been wiped out in a mass execution sanctioned by the victors and Queen Francesca herself in the signing of the Peace of Cintra. At this point, Faen had seen more of Iorveth’s life come to pass than anyone else still alive.

“Budge up, let a man rest his back,” the large elf gasped through labored breaths, gesturing for Iorveth to scoot over. The commander made room, and his friend planted himself at his side, chest heaving as he leaned backward against the rough bark of the tree. His tawny cheeks were colored by a rosy flush, and the few strands of hair that had escaped his long, black ponytail were pasted to his forehead with perspiration. Large circles of sweat darkened his green tunic, which was unlaced at the collar to display a large, intricate tattoo that covered all the visible parts of his broad chest.

“Why are you panting like you just ran to Vengerberg and back?” asked Iorveth, arching a brow.

“Been heaving logs.”

“Clearing a blocked path?”

There wasn't an ounce of sarcasm in Faen's tone as he replied, “Nah. For fun.”

Iorveth chuckled. One of Faen’s favorite pastimes was repeatedly lifting heavy objects and doing chin-ups on sturdy branches, all in his ongoing quest to one day become so strong that he could, as he liked to put it, “rip a dh’oine in half.” He reached up with one large, callused hand to wipe his sweaty brow, and Iorveth passed him a waterskin.

Accepting it gratefully, Faen pulled the stopper and took a long, greedy draw, the liquid inside sloshing noisily as he glanced over at Iorveth’s project. “You treat your quiver better than most parents tend their children,” he said, swiping his forearm over his mouth.

“Can’t expect an arrow to fly true if its fletching looks like a cat’s plaything.”

Faen looked up at the umbrella of red leaves above their head. “Well, hopefully, it won’t have too much more flying to do before we head to the caves.”

Iorveth grunted in agreement. Wintertime meant an unspoken truce among the guerilla factions, in no small part because the Scoia’tael made a habit of retreating into the network of caverns deep in the Kestrel Mountains to weather the season, sheltering in the heart of the range where the snow-packed passages made for an impenetrable radius around their encampment.

“It’ll be nice to have an excuse to rest for a couple of months,” he admitted. He’d selected three feathers of uniform size and shape and had begun binding them to the shaft of the arrow with a length of sinew. “I’m looking forward to warm mulled wine and nights spent huddled around the fire.”

“And will you be selecting a single-dwelling cave this winter, or one sized for two?”

“If you’re going to be insufferable, you can find another tree to sweat on,” the commander grumbled, though he betrayed a small twitch at the corner of his lips.

“Can’t blame me for wondering, though, can you? How many years has it been since you shared your bed with someone? And now you scarcely spend a night alone. Those magic hands of hers must be good for more than just healing, eh?”

Iorveth gave him a smile that showed he wasn’t going to argue the point, but he chose not to elaborate, either. “Can't a man just enjoy having someone next to him at night? She’s warm. And she smells nice, like fresh elderflower.” His lips drew into a thin line as he pulled the sinew taut and finished his wrapping. “Though she is a shameless blanket hog.”

“There are a number of other warm bodies in camp you could’ve chosen,” Faen argued, gesturing at the sea of white canvas peaks in front of them. He adopted a tone of deep offense. “For instance, I happen to be extremely cuddly, and yet you’ve never invited me to spend a single night in your tent.”

“Yes, well, I happen to know you snore like a troll with a head cold. And you _definitely_ don’t smell like elderflowers.”

Faenn snorted. “Fair enough,” he said, taking another swig of water and giving a jovial shrug before setting the waterskin back down on the ground between them. “I’m just saying, she’s starting to spend more nights in your tent than her own. Might make sense to free hers up for someone else. The spring weather always brings an influx of new recruits, and we’ll need the space.”

Iorveth selected another arrow with disheveled feathers and began cutting the dry, cracked bindings away with a pocketknife. He had to admit that Faen had a good point. The skirmishes had been fewer and further between this year, owing largely to the fact that the humans had been so busy fighting amongst themselves that their quarrel with the Scoia’tael seemed to have become something of an afterthought.

The elves had continued their raids and tactical assaults on people and places of strategic importance, but even the dh'oine's retaliatory attacks had seemed feeble, almost half-hearted. As a result, Iorveth had thankfully lost very few of his soldiers, and living space was becoming scarce. It wasn’t a problem they’d ever had before, and part of him wanted to cling to it as a portent of better days to come.

He examined the shaft of the arrow in his hand, a dark red-brown stain running most of its length—the lingering evidence of death fixed indelibly into the smooth grain of the wood. It felt like holding an avatar of himself between his fingers, as though he, too, had been permanently marked by each kill, every dead dh’oine leaving its own imprint on his ragged soul. Here he was, fighting the same fights as his father, and his grandfather before that. Gods, would they ever be done with it all? Would he even know what to do with his freedom when they were?

“You've gone quiet all of a sudden,” Faen observed, interrupting Iorveth’s introspection. “Copper for your thoughts?”

For a brief moment, Iorveth entertained the idea of confiding these fears in his friend, of telling him how tired he was of all of it, how afraid he was that he wouldn’t know how to function or find purpose without a battle to fight. How very deeply he had come to love Lana, how much more intense the tides of his feelings were becoming every single day, swelling into waves that nearly swept him under every time she met his gaze. How much he struggled trying to imagine a future where they could just _be_ , happy and unburdened by this unceasing war.

But no. Faen may be his oldest and closest friend, but he was still Iorveth's soldier, and the commander couldn't let his men see just how weary he had become. He tucked these thoughts away, along with all the other things he'd buried, wearing them close to his chest like a layer of armor around his heart.

“I was just thinking about our food stores,” he lied. “They’ll need bulking up before we head to the caves. We should send out scouts to find areas where the forest harvests are still plentiful and organize foraging excursions, and plan out some raids on the caravans traveling the highway with loads of grain and sugar. We'll need to increase our hunting efforts, as well, and begin curing and salting the meat to store away.”

Faen looked skeptical, as though he didn’t entirely believe that this was what had been consuming Iorveth’s thoughts. If this was true, however, he chose not to voice it. “That can all be easily arranged," he replied with a nod. "I can begin putting some things in motion this afternoon.”

“Good,” Iorveth grunted, sifting through the box of feathers again, glad for the change of subject and eager to focus on something else. “Starving ourselves in the mountains is not how I’d prefer to free up tents.”


	10. Chapter 10

Early morning birdsong drifted through the camp. The soft notes of a wood-warbler found their way into the largest tent, sunlight streaming through the leaves that swayed with the breeze overhead, casting moving shadows on the walls. Inside, Lana listened to the sweet little melody, a smile spreading over her face as she watched the man next to her fast asleep beneath a heavy woolen blanket.

It was rare for her to wake first. Iorveth was an early riser, and she usually found herself inside a cocoon of covers being gently kissed back into consciousness and then chided for stealing all the blankets yet again. Today, however, he seemed to be enjoying a profound and restful sleep, and she was in no hurry to bring him out of it.

She let her eyes move over his face. His scarred temple rested against the pillow beneath him, sleep-touseled hair sticking out in every direction. Deep, rhythmic breaths passed silently through his nose, moving his bare chest up and down beneath her arm.

He looked so different in slumber. All the visible tension he carried in his waking hours had been replaced by a quiet tranquility, as though the war had never existed at all. The lines that creased his brow had all but disappeared, and his lips were parted ever so slightly, jaw muscles soft and slack.

The warbler sang again, this time accompanied by the noisy percussion of a woodpecker in search of a meal. The little crescent moon of dark eyelashes against Iorveth’s cheek twitched, his mouth pulling into a frown as he drew a sharp breath. He drew his knees up and groaned as the noisy hammering reached a crescendo, laying his forearm over his eyes.

“Where’s my bow?” he grumbled.

Lana snorted. “You can’t kill a bird just for wanting breakfast, Iorveth.”

“Watch me.”

She laughed, and the corners of his lips curled up into a grin at the sound. He peeked out from underneath his arm.

“How long have you been lying there watching me?”

“I’m not sure. Since after the sun came up, but not by much.”

He rolled onto his side, opening his arms to her and pulling her against him. He felt deliciously warm against her bare skin. “Were you planning to let me sleep all day?”

“I was thinking about it. You looked quite content.”

He pressed a kiss into her hair, and she wriggled closer. A soft grunt from his chest blew a warm breath of air over her forehead as her groin brushed against his.

“Careful,” he warned, letting his arm trace the curve of her spine.

Lana looked up at him with her impish little smirk. “You assume that wasn’t intentional.”

Iorveth arched a brow as she rubbed against him again, cupping his jaw in her hands and taking his lower lip between hers to give it a nibble. Without protest, he slid his hand further down her back to grip the curve of warm, soft flesh that peeked out from the leg of her smalls.

It didn’t take long before she could feel his length firming against her belly. With a quiet, baritone growl of desire, he rolled her onto her back, peppering her neck with kisses as his palm found her breast. She felt his tongue flicking against her collarbone, and she rolled her hips upward. _Gods_ , he knew just how to touch her, and her mind skipped several steps ahead to an eventuality where his tongue was occupied elsewhere.

_“Lana!”_

They froze, listening to the sharp smack of a hand rapping against the canvas flaps—the closest anyone could come to knocking in a city full of tents.

“Get your arse up!” Rhianwenn’s voice rang harshly through the air again. “Breakfast is ready an’ you’ll have to get a wiggle on if you want anythin’ to eat before we go.”

“Ten minutes!” Lana called back. She looked up apologetically at Iorveth, who closed his eyes, exhaling a long breath through his nostrils. “To be continued?”

“Tell your friend to pack her things,” he growled. “I want her out of this camp by noon.”

Lana laughed as he rolled over, pulling the blanket up to hide his erection and covering his eyes with his hands. “I’m sorry,” she said, putting a hand on his chest. “I forgot all about today.”

“What is today, anyway?’ he asked. “Where are you going?”

“The scouts found a huge cache of bilberries about half an hour’s walk from camp. So we’re going to go berry-picking.” Her face lit up. “You should come with us! It’s just a small group, Faen and Rhi and myself and a couple of the others. Most everyone else is busy with hunting parties or planning caravan raids. We could use an extra pair of hands.” She gave him a little smile. “Plus I’d enjoy the company.”

“I haven’t gone berry-picking since I was a boy,” he said, mulling the idea over. A look of fond reminiscence sparkled in his eye his face split into a grin. “I used to go with my mother every autumn, and my father would send practically half the battalion to watch over us. Mother used to joke that it was really the fruit he was worried the dh’oine would capture, because it would mean missing out on her preserves.”

“Well, you can come and guard the bilberries and I’ll reward you with a dozen jars of jam. And I’ll even give you a down payment.” She leaned over to kiss him and slipped her hand underneath the blanket. He was still semi-firm, and he let out a soft little moan as she took him in her hand and slid her palm along his length.

“What are you doing? I thought we had to stop.”

“I said ten minutes. That’s _plenty_ of time if you’re willing to try hard enough.”

He allowed himself to be stroked again, closing his eyes as she dipped her head to take his ear between her lips.

“You’re going to be the death of me, _zireal’ca_.”

* * *

The trek to the thicket of bilberry bushes passed pleasantly enough. The group of elves moved along at a casual, unhurried pace, chatting and laughing easily with one another as they walked. It would be more tedious getting back with their many sacks and baskets heavily laden with fruit, but Lana wasn’t concerned about that. After all, they'd brought along Faen, and he was as strong as three of her.

They set about combing through the leafy copse of shrubs, plucking the ripe indigo berries from the branches and rapidly filling their various receptacles—or _most_ of them did, anyway.

“You know,” Lana said, glancing over to where Iorveth was working next to her, “some of those do actually need to make it back to _camp.”_

“Mmm?” he asked, turning to her with a plump berry between his lips.

“We’re supposed to be _stockpiling_ , Iorveth. Not _snacking_.”

“Perks of being the commander,” he said with a shrug. “I get all the best berries and the prettiest woman in camp.”

Rolling her eyes and looking halfway between amused and exasperated, Lana turned back to her own shrub. “Did your mother let you get away with this kind of behavior?”

“Not at all. Did I forget to mention that she banned me from going berry picking after it became clear that more of the harvest ended up in my belly than in my basket?”

“That little detail must have slipped your mind.” She shook her head, bending down to reach deep into the branches. A gentle hand touched the small of her back, and she straightened.

“Here, try one. The most perfect berry I could find.” He held up the fattest, bluest one she’d seen so far, pinched between his finger and thumb, both of which were stained with dark purple juice.

She gave him a reproachful look but parted her lips nonetheless, and he popped the little bilberry into her mouth. The plump little fruit burst delightfully in her mouth when she bit down, releasing a spray of juice from its ripe flesh that tasted both sweet and tart on her tongue. She chewed and swallowed as Iorveth looked on, expectant.

“Well?” he asked.

Lana narrowed her eyes, her full mouth going very thin indeed as she admitted, “I’m annoyed at how good that was.”

“See? I told you. _Perfect._ ” He put a hand on her waist and pulled her toward him, drawing his gaze from her eyes down to her lips and giving her a smile that crinkled the corner of his eye, just visible beneath his cowl. He leaned close.

“Iorveth!” she whispered, trying to peer over his shoulder. “The others can see us.”

“Let them watch. If anyone says anything, I’ll push you right up against that elm tree over there and take you right now.”

She snorted. He pressed his lips to hers, and with a somewhat resigned expression and the merest hint of a grin, she allowed herself to be kissed right there in the berry thicket in front of the gods and everyone, the birds singing overhead and the sunshine on her skin as it streamed through the leaves above, bright and warm and promising.

She couldn’t help but think how unimaginable this moment would have been two years ago, how very different he was now from the man who had sneered at her in his tent, laughing at the preposterous notion of her joining his faction.

What a difference time could make. He was softer now, somehow. Playful and affectionate.

 _Happy,_ she thought to herself. That must be it. He was unabashedly happy, and he didn’t care who knew the reason why. Perhaps it wasn't just time that had made the difference.

His lips broke away from hers, and he held her gaze for a brief moment before the sound of exaggerated retching reached them from behind his back. They turned to see Rhianwenn miming a finger down her throat.

“Save it for the tent, you two!” she hollered, though the smile that split her face in two suggested that she didn’t actually feel as disgusted as she let on. Iorveth spun around and gave her a very rude hand gesture and then looked back at Lana, still grinning.

Perhaps it was the din of the other elves’ laughter and raucus catcalling that masked the sound, or maybe the two of them were just too enthralled with one another to take notice, but neither heard the distinctive twang of a bowstring being released somewhere in the trees.

Lana looked on with confusion as Iorveth’s smiling eyes widened in surprise, the grin still frozen on his lips as he looked down to see the shaft of an arrow protruding from his chest, surrounded by a blossoming red stain.


	11. Chapter 11

Time slowed. Lana heard Rhianwenn’s hoarse scream, muffled and distorted, as though Lana was sinking through the murky waters of a pond.

_“Ambush!”_

Falling to her knees in the undergrowth, she knelt over Iorveth’s body, her shaking hand hovering over the wound, lips trembling.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, _no_.”

Iorveth’s eyes flitted back and forth, unseeing, as he drew rasping breaths. Then a pair of thick, tawny arms abruptly scooped him up, and she heard Faen’s voice hiss at her, jarring her out of her stupor.

“We need cover, Lana! _Move!”_

He took off with Iorveth slung between his arms, racing as fast as he could over the forest floor as the other elves took up their weapons and made ready to fight. Lana tore after him, heart-pounding and lungs searing until she could taste copper in her throat. Faen’s heavy gait pitched and tossed Iorveth’s body as he ran, and a coiling serpent of dread wound itself around her, squeezing the air from her chest as she imagined the arrow driving deeper with every clumsy step.

At last, they reached a small clearing further back from the fray. The sound of metal against metal rang through the forest, accompanied by the cries of elves and dh’oine alike. Faen set Iorveth down in the grass and reached for the wooden shaft sticking out of the commander’s jacket.

Lana shoved his hand away. “No! You’ll only kill him faster.”Her quavering fingers reached up to touch Iorveth’s sticky, blood-coated neck, feeling for a pulse. Faint, but still there. His breaths were shallow, barely moving his chest at all. “If we pull the arrow, he’ll bleed out in seconds. And if he’s punctured his lung, it’ll collapse and he’ll suffocate before I can mend anything.”

“Then what the fuck do we do?”

Lana shook her head, hot tears spilling over her cheeks. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know.”

Her kit was still back at the camp, forgotten in her excitement. Gods, how could she have been so _stupid?_

“Well, you have to do _something!”_ Faen’s voice sounded shrill in her ears. Panicked.

Lana wracked her brains, thinking back to what she’d learned growing up in the temple. She’d read every book on magical theory she could get her hands on, but that had been all it was to her— _theory_. If only she were a mage, a _real_ mage, maybe she could have learned it all properly, but—

Iorveth coughed, spraying droplets of blood in the air. She was running out of time, and fretting about her shortcomings wouldn’t save him.

“There’s… there’s a spell I remember reading about. It’s really advanced. I don’t even know if I can manage it, but… I have to try. There’s nothing else.” She glanced up at Faen. “You need to get back. _Far_ back. If it comes near you, keep moving.”

“If _what_ comes near me?”

“Just _go,_ Faen!”

The huge elf got to his feet and retreated, looking on with a mixture of curiosity and fear as Lana placed her hands on Iorveth’s chest, fingers making a diamond shape over the place where the arrow protruded.

She bowed her head, channeling her focus to a place deep within Iorveth’s chest. She could feel his heartbeat underneath her palms, weak and slowing by the second. Closing her eyes, she clenched her jaw.

 _Please_.

She didn’t know who she was praying to—Melitele? Díann Leighael?—nor did she particularly care. She continued, desperate, silently pleading with anyone who could hear her.

_Please, don’t let this happen. **Help me.**_

Her lips parted and she drew deep, measured breaths as she spun raw chaos into threads of magic that wove, golden and electric, through her body.

The spell began to reverberate uncomfortably through her wrists and into her palms and fingertips, transferring her magic to his quaking body. The golden threads swelled into flows of molten lava, pouring and burning through her veins. Little hairs raised up on her forearms and the back of her neck, and suddenly she felt as though every nerve in her body had been set aflame.

She leaned forward, an anguished groan escaping her lips as a fat drop of blood trickled out of one nostril. It hung there briefly, warm and heavy on the tip of her nose, before falling to mingle with the growing pool around her hands.

The arrow shuddered.

Encouraged, Lana pushed aside the pain and redoubled her efforts, feeling her magic strengthen. Millimeter by millimeter, the long, feathered wooden shaft began to lift out of Iorveth’s body, seemingly of its own accord. She could sense his body mending itself, closing the wound behind the arrow as it ascended.

All around her, a growing circle of shriveled, blackened grass spread like ripples in a pond from the spot where she knelt, creeping outward as she drew more and more chaos from the world around her. Faen stood with his back against a nearby tree, paralyzed in awe and horror as Lana drained the forest of its life force.

Iorveth drew a shallow, ragged breath, choked by his own blood, and Lana watched his eyes roll back into his head. The pulse below her palms had stopped.

 _“No!”_ Her cry rang ragged and hoarse through the clearing, echoing off the trees and mingling with the nearby sounds of battle.

Baring her teeth, she summoned every ounce of her magic, willing it to be enough. Pain—blinding agony the likes of which she had never experienced before—ripped through her body, spreading from her palms to her core.

Her circle of destruction widened precipitously. Whole trees seemed to wither and crack, branches crashing to the undergrowth as the arrow drew itself out faster. Faen scrambled backward, watching the perimeter of ruination chase his footsteps.

A sudden, swirling mass of clouds darkened the sky, with Lana at its epicenter. Bolts of lightning illuminated the woods and struck the ground around her, clods of dirt and sod flying into the air wherever they struck.

Unfazed, she turned her face to the sky and embraced the gathering storm of her own creation, drawing from its chaos, as well. The sides of her neck were streaked with warm rivulets of blood that flowed from her ears, muffling the rumble of thunder that shook the forest floor. Desperate and exhausted, she roared into the trees, throat raw and eyes burning with tears that blurred her vision as she looked down at Iorveth. She was so close. The arrow was nearly out. Sobs wracked her body as she continued her silent prayer.

_Please. Don’t take him from me._

If she had thought the pain couldn’t get worse, she had been horribly mistaken. She was dying now, she was certain of it. Rending herself to pieces, tearing her body apart to bring him back. It was torture, but she couldn’t stop or she'd lose him. Tipping her head back, her voice rose to a terrible scream that sent the creatures of the forest scrambling all around her outside the borders of her spell’s effect.

High above her, a little blue bird on a branch made to take flight, fleeing the sudden furor that had erupted within the clearing just an instant too late. Its miniscule talon still touched the branch where it had been resting, and Lana’s magic reached it just before it could disengage. With a small chirp of surprise and terror, the bird keeled over, falling to the leaves of the forest floor on the outskirts of the elf’s magic.

Wrapping her hand around the arrow, Lana funneled the last of her energy into Iorveth’s body, and the pointed metal tip, streaked with red, came free in her palm at last. She laid her other hand over the shallow wound that remained, sealing it.

With one last, immense effort, she channeled a pulse of energy directly to his heart, swaying where she sat. His body arched under her touch, and she felt a fragile little tremor, then a weak but steady beat beginning to take hold underneath the ribs she had mended not so long ago.

The forest spun around her. With the arrow still clutched tight in fingers trembling and sticky with blood, Lana reeled. Darkness closed in, and she collapsed against Iorveth's bloodsoaked chest an instant before he opened his eyes, drawing a deep, convulsive gasp.


End file.
